Festive Fear

Last year, I started the holidays early.  I donned my festive gear, complete with jingly reinder bells, baked biscuits, sang songs, watched Christmas movies.  The start of the festive season also meant that my birthday was closeby, so I was doubly happy.  And then a series of awful things happened, and the end of my year went from triumphant to tearful.   Happy to hateful. And instead of ploughing my face into food, as is one of my most favourite pastimes, I cried the season away.  FESTIVE.  And if that wasn’t enough, because I was um, emotionally extreme, I made a public spectacle of myself crying endlessly as if I was dying, of which I have frequent, fun snot filled flashbacks.  Hashtag glamour.

Seriously though, if one looks though statistically at what happens in December, the truth is that too many people end up alone.  Too many people are fearful, scared, alone.   People with mental illness a lot know what it’s like to be alone.  I hate it.  And with the dawning of the festive season in my country,  the amazing non-existent mental health service disappears even further, just like Santa up a chimney, after you hear the sound of bells.  The best you can do for yourself is ask the police if you can drive around with them in the back of one of their vans so you can feel paranoid / sedated / captive / like someone’s listening over the cop radio, they might even be open to attaching a few bells, or bleeping their siren to a well known Christmas ditty.   Because frankly you’re unlikely to receive much of anything else and that there frightful option, would seem like fun.  At least you’d have company.

If you’re lucky enough to have private medical insurance, you could be admitted to a hospital, where relatives won’t visit as they’re away on holiday or busy being festive, and you’d be serviced by the “skeleton” staff on duty.  Wow.  My last experience of skeleton staff saw me being so heavily sedated that I didn’t know who or where I was, by a psychiatrist and psychologist who had NO clue of my history – some may find this merry mistake as a lovely way to do the festive – but that’s not my kind of um, cup of pills. My long-standing therapist is also going on holiday.  Tomorrow will be my second last session for the year, and I am almost outraged that I won’t be able to talk to him until next year, when my mental health has so very clearly started to melt.  The flashbacks of my blue christmas are becoming oh so more pronounced so I’m irritated that my therapist wants to do something like REST.  Like spend time with his family.  Ok not true.  I don’t begrudge him that.  But I do think that people with mental illness need more help over the festive season as opposed to less.

I’m trying the most to be reassured.  To not worry.  To look forward to a few weeks where I may even be able to spend the day on the beach.  To see someone lovely and beautiful get married.  To make new merry memories.  To see my spirit mother (living person note).  But my heart and mind are wiggly at the moment, and I most feel like climbing under my bed until the unnesscary fake snow, santa and glitter leave.  I especially feel like staying under there if it means that my soft undershell will be protected.  I can’t be upbeat today.  Or end with some happy thought.  Happy hellish holidays, or at least let’s hope for the opposite.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

 

Lucky Packet Days

Today I have had a lucky packet day, experiencing child like joy, terror and cringe worthy moments.  The first item I chose would definetly be a bright red mini ferrari car.  Sometimes living with Bipolar is like racing around curving tracks that you drive as best you can – and often as fast as you can – you know, to keep up with those who don’t take psychiatric-makes-you tired-stuff.  Those less emotionally colourful.  I should not be racing along I know, but it does feel like that having to race an all too small car around, too fast curves is sometimes what is required without stopping to check your tyres or refuel.  This is dangerous for me.  Dangerous for people who have mental illness – not because we’re less able cars –  but because in my experience you need to have your ‘wheels balanced’ regularly.    I did that this morning with my therapist.  Stopped racing to talk, think and reflect about me. Mine – those that matter – and sometimes bitching about those who don’t.  Car refuelled, tyres changed.  Ready to take – or if I so decide – to slowly take, the next lap.

The next item I chose would be the dice.  The dice fell out the packet when attending my mother’s cancer awareness church high tea for women.  The roll of the dice was when a cancer survivor reflected on a difficult journey, chemotherapy and painkillers.  I felt so sorry for the pain that she had been through and thought about the many other families that had lost loved ones to this terrible killer.  Then she killed me – she said God cured me.  No pills, no treatment nothing.  Screech of the brakes, I tried to keep my face straight – and wanted to say to her louldly, no girl, you’re not on the Monopoly board with that particulr throw.  Telling people to not get medical care for terminal illness is very much a gamble, and not a dice you should be handing around, you know, to see how people fare.  No.  In defiance I slipped around the corner and had a long awaited cigarette – no-one saw and I figured I would tell my treatment team about my um, regular cancer inducing habits.  But a roll of the dice this woman was.  Please do pray, please do believe in God – but medicine works. Fullstop.

The next lucky packet item would be the popping candy – my neice.  She and her mother had joined the tea, and my neice and youngest daughter decided they WERE going to enjoy themselves.  Waiting patiently for the pleasantries, and dice rolling cancer survivor tale to end, they were finally allowed to select cake dainties, sweeties, and the must have samoosa’s that are staples at any church do.  They poppingly picked their favourites, made notes of those they hadn’t gotten for second rounds, and literally jointly skipped back to the table.  They ate, laughed and were quite happy to be the pint size versions of the aunties, my mother, and churchly women clad in pink awareness gear around them.  My neice’s behaviour however was why I would call her the popping candy – music started, and without waiting a second, she jumped up and started doing the under-10 version of night fever.  She didn’t care, she jammed, she loved it, and inspired my daughter to jump up and dance with her.  Think about popping candy and the lovely sensation on your tongue – the young, unpredictable, lovely pop of coca-cola flavoured rocks.  That’s what she did for my emotional tongue.  And I enjoyed each pop.

Then the next item I took was a flowery plastic ring.  And that ring would have to be symbolic of my husband.  He is the caffeine in my coffee, the nicotine in my cigarette, the warm in my heart and my safe place.  This week we had both travelled away and I hadn’t seen him in long cuddleless days.  To wake up next to him, even after not sleeping well at night is a pleasure.  He is usually up first, makes me coffee, and gives me a soft entrance to the day.  He literally rolls a red carpet out at my feet and even attempts to speak and comprehend Bipolar.  Brave man.  For that alone he deserves the nobel peace prize.   At this very moment I am twisting my flowery ring more tightly on my finger and in my heart.  I have a goodie, and I WILL be keeping his ring.

Whilst there were many other things I would reflect on as being part of my lucky packet today, the last I will talk about would be the lollipop of realisation.  Lucky packet lollipops are dangerous.  You are NEVER sure of what you’re going to get.  It could be a lovely cherry flavoured smooth suck, ending either with a bitter sweet sherbet, or my personal favourite, chewy, cherry flavoured gum.  But my lollipop licking today was different.  In therapy this morning, I realised that during my most recent hospitalisation I had mourned something.  I had seen me. I had seen me sad, inconsolable – moody, manic and irritable.  That’s like forcing people around you to suck a lollipop that tastes terrible, cuts their tongues and doesn’t end with a joyful surprise ending, their reward for having toiling through the outer layers. No.  I had mourned that.  I AM mourning the days my illness affected others, because it has.  And it will. So my lollipop was difficult to taste, savour and understand.  I think maybe I am only just working on the outer layer.

What I’ve learned however is that even when we have these lucky packet days – we can decide which of the items we’d like to keep and which we’d like to discard.  We can decide what each item means to us and let go of those that aren’t good for us.  I am.  I will.  But I am struggling with the lollipop.  Maybe I will.  Maybe people with mental illness do.  Maybe that’s ok.  I’ll figure out which items to discard another day.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.